


Drink the Wild Air

by profdanglais



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Duckling, Enchanted Forest AU, F/M, pirates and princesses and buckling of swash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-01-03 09:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21176963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais/pseuds/profdanglais
Summary: Once upon a time a princess fell in love with a pirate. This is their story.A Captain Duckling high-seas adventure tale in which princesses are kidnapped (OR ARE THEY), sea battles are fought, SWASH is BUCKLED and CASTLES are STORMED.(also EVIL is VANQUISHED and FAMILIES are REUNITED)





	1. The Princess and the Pirate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RecoveringTheSatellites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites/gifts).

> For Stephanie on her birthday ❤️❤️

Once upon a time there was a princess. 

A beautiful one, to be sure, as princesses in stories such as this are wont to be, but beautiful was far from the only thing that might be said of her. Born of a union of fabled True Love and raised by parents who valued her far too highly to spoil her, she grew up to be daring and kind, brave and witty, and curious to a fault.

She was also stubborn, and stubbornly independent, insisting on leading her own life in her own way and choosing for herself the partner to accompany her along the path of it. She would not, she declared, accept a political marriage; she would have a love like her parents’ or none at all. Suitor after suitor tried to woo her, princes and dukes and sultans from far-off lands, and suitor after suitor she rejected. None could tempt her, for all wished to put her on display and indulge her like a pretty pet, and the restless princess would quite sincerely choose death over such a life. In desperation the king and queen sent her far into the north, to the frozen kingdom of Arendelle, their ancient ally, in hopes it might appease her longing for adventure and return her home in a different frame of mind. 

The princess greatly enjoyed her trip; she liked the queen of Arendelle and its princess, and the magnificence of their icy land. In the six months of her stay she had many enjoyable adventures and met many interesting people. She did not, much to her parents’ dismay, fall in love. 

On the day she was set to embark upon her return to her own kingdom, a man presented himself at the gates of the palace. A remarkably handsome man, with dark hair made carefully untidy and bright blue eyes lined in black. His speech and dress were perfectly proper and his manner charming but the princess was not easily deceived, and she saw as the others did not a hardness in the twinkle of his eyes and a cunning beneath his charm. 

He had come to deliver a message to the queen, the man informed them, placing a wax-sealed envelope on the footman’s silver tray with a flourish and an elegant bow. As he turned to take his leave his gaze caught the princess’s and held it, brazenly, for a brief and endless moment broken only when he shot her a wink that brought a scowl to her face and sealed her decision. He was not to be trusted, and she intended to uncover his game. 

She trailed him with ease as he strolled casually, almost ostentatiously through the broad and snowy streets, until she blinked for a heartbeat too long and he was gone. The princess was thunderstruck, cursing under her breath as she spun in a circle, eyes darting about, seeking any glimpse of him. 

“Looking for someone, Your Highness?” murmured a deep voice in her ear, and she turned to see him smirking at her in a much less charming way than he had in the throne room. 

“You!” she gasped, and cursed herself for inanity.

“Aye.” His smirk deepened. “I suspect you may have been seeking me.” 

“I wasn’t! I just—” 

“Didn’t trust me,” he interjected, with a hint of bitterness that took her by surprise. “Very wise, Princess. I am not a trustworthy man.” 

“And why would you admit that to me?” 

“Because I have no quarrel with this kingdom and I don’t wish for any trouble. It’s true I have been known to lie and cheat and even plunder when circumstances demand it, but I have no nefarious intentions here. I merely wish to board my ship and be on my way.” He indicated a vessel docked in the nearby harbour, a tall and distinguished one, adorned with stripes of yellow and flying a crimson flag. 

“A pirate ship!” she gasped. 

“Privateer, darling, in this land at least. And I prefer to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.” 

“But if you’re a pi— a _privateer_, then why were you delivering a message to the queen?” 

“Because I was paid well to do so.” 

“By whom?” 

“I find it’s best not to inquire. Now is your curiosity satisfied or do you intend to follow me aboard my ship as well? A beautiful woman such as yourself would be _most_ welcome.” He cocked an eyebrow, licking his lower lip as his heavy-lidded gaze travelled slowly down her face, landing on the open neckline of her gown with such blatantly lecherous intent that the princess could not suppress a burst of laughter. 

“Are you trying to intimidate me?” she chuckled. 

His thick brows snapped together and he sputtered in indignation, but her bright laugh proved infectious and he was a man with a keen eye for irony. “Aye,” he replied, chuckling himself. “Without success, it would seem.” 

He looked at her as he spoke the words, truly _looked_ at her as he hadn’t before, his blue eyes alight with a genuine interest and a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and the princess felt a fluttering in her belly that was wholly new to her. “You’re a tough lass,” he observed, and his voice held only admiration. 

The princess felt off-balance, unsteady, as though her blood were moving too quickly through her veins, and she did not care for it. She stepped back, gesturing at the street that led to his ship. “Take your leave, then, sir,” she said. 

“Captain,” he informed her, closing the distance she’d put between them and taking her hand. “Captain Killian Jones, of the _Jolly Roger_.” 

“Emma,” replied the princess, before she could stop herself. “Princess Emma of Misthaven.” 

“Misthaven,” murmured Captain Jones. “Lovely.” He performed a gracious bow over Emma’s hand, brushing his lips across the back of it. They were warm and soft and Emma gasped as the flutter in her belly grew stronger. He looked up at the soft sound and their gazes collided over the top of her hand with a crackle like lighting though a summer sky. Every emotion thrumming through her in that moment she saw reflected in his eyes: attraction, excitement, confusion, apprehension, just a hint of fear. The cheeky pirate and the haughty princess were gone and they lay bare to each other’s sight, just for the space of a heartbeat. 

Then he released her hand and turned away, disappearing into the crowd. Moments later she saw him boarding his ship, pausing just at the top of the gangplank as though he might turn back to look at her… she held her breath… he squared his shoulders and strode onto the deck and she could see him no more. Emma turned away herself and walked slowly back to the palace, feeling shaken and oddly empty. Of course, she thought, _of course_ it would happen that after five years and dozens of suitors she had finally met the man whose touch made her heart beat faster, and he was a pirate she would never see again. 

~

Because once upon a time there _was_ a pirate. A good man with a bad temper, who had done things in the heat of his anger that could not be undone once it had cooled, and allowed their consequences to embitter and harden him. A resourceful man and a clever one, he worked his way up from nothing only to throw his life away for love of his brother, squandering his talents in revenge and rum until the day a pair of green eyes looked at him as none had ever done before and set his feet upon a different path. 

A great one for brooding, he took to his cabin with his flask and his thoughts, golden hair and silken skin prominent among them. The most intriguing woman he’d ever met, he thought with a scowl, and she was a bloody princess, as untouchable as the stars themselves and surely someone he would never see again. 

He sailed his ship into open waters looking for a fight, an enemy vessel he might plunder to relieve his feelings. His first mate —whose time in Arendelle had been spent gathering information from the harbourmaster there— apprised him of two likely targets: a barge travelling to Glowerhaven from Agrabah which they could intercept in a day or so, and a royal passenger ship set to sail from Arendelle that very evening, bearing the standard of Misthaven. 

The captain’s heart leapt in his chest but he kept his face expressionless as he instructed his first mate to target the barge. Agrabah was rich in spices and jewels; a slow-moving barge loaded with its cargo made a far more tempting prospect than an agile and well-armed royal yacht that may or may not be transporting a certain green-eyed princess. 

As the sun set that evening the _Jolly Roger_ drifted as they waited for the wind that would carry them towards Glowerhaven, the men in the crow’s nest keeping their watchful eyes upon the open seas while the captain kept his on the Misthaven vessel coming up swiftly on their starboard stern. As it passed by he saw her, leaning against the ship’s rail, her hair trailing in the breeze and her posture thoughtful. She straightened when she caught sight of him and he could swear their gazes locked even across that surging stretch of water, with an intensity surpassing even what they had shared in Arendelle and broken only when he dropped into an elaborate bow and —though he doubted she could really see it— winked at her. 

She inclined her head and gave him a mocking curtsey, and as her ship sailed away into the setting sun the captain scratched behind his ear, a nervous gesture he thought he’d left well in his past. 

Misthaven, he mused. To his knowledge he had never taken any of their ships. Perhaps his crew might care to dock there for a day or two, and enjoy their Agrabahti spoils. The wind picked up and as the crew leapt into action the captain smiled, imagining piles of exotic jewels and green eyes that put them all to shame. 

A week later they made their port and if the princess, whose tower bedroom boasted a fine view of the harbour from its wide window, felt a stuttering in her heartbeat and a quickening in her blood at the sight of the brightly painted ship, she did not speak of it. Rather, she donned her oldest gown and covered her hair, and slipped away from the palace and into the only tavern in all her land where a pirate might feel welcome. 

The delight on the captain’s face when she sat down next to him did nothing to dispel either the quickening or the heartbeat. 

“Princess,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

“What, here in my kingdom?” 

His eyebrows danced at the snap in her tone. “Here in this tavern, love, where if you’ll forgive me for saying so you do appear rather out of place.” 

A twinkle of mischief glinted in her eye as she gazed up at him from beneath thick lashes. “Would it surprise you to learn this isn’t the first time I’ve been here?” 

His own gaze was intense, solemn, though his face wore the same small smile as it had in the streets of Arendelle. “No,” he said softly. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all.” 

She grinned in delight at that, unaccountably flattered by the approval in his voice. 

“And now, Your Highness,” he said, his voice dropping lower as he leaned in close. “May I buy you a drink?” 

She leaned in herself, thrilling at the hitch in his breath and the heat in his eyes, her heart pounding faster than ever. 

“Call me Emma.” 


	2. The Two Pirates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IN WHICH pirating is done and we meet a mysterious new character.

The sun rose in spectacular fashion that morning, the bending light of its rays painting the sky in a wash of delicate pink and orange streaked with gold. The light traced a shimmering path across the becalmed ocean, bathing the royal flagship in a warm glow and reflecting its image cleanly in the flat surface of the water. Every detail of the finely carved decorations that adorned the hull, the tall, square-rigged masts, even the lettering on the Queen’s standard hanging high atop the mainmast was lovingly caressed by the rosy dawn. 

As the first narrow sliver of the sun itself crested the horizon the pirates attacked.

Their ship appeared as if from nowhere, moving swiftly across the water in defiance of the lack of wind, coming up alongside the flagship’s port stern with cannon at the ready. The first volley of their attack was loosed with stunning force and precision, easily piercing the flagship’s thick hull, shattering her rudder and plunging her gun decks into chaos. 

“How the devil did they manage that?” cried the flagship’s first mate, leaning over the railing of the quarterdeck and gaping at the massive hole in the side of his ship. “What kind of guns could they _possibly_ have?”

He trained his spyglass on the pirate ship—or rather, on the place where the ship _had been_, but the smaller vessel was nowhere to be seen. He spun about, scanning the horizon until he spotted the pirates just off his starboard bow. Through his spyglass he watched as they loaded their five guns —_only five!_— and loosed a second volley, one that blasted a hole in the starboard hull to match the one on the port side and took out the mainmast in a burst of jagged splinters. The fist mate watched in frozen disbelief as the huge beam bent beneath the weight of sheets and sails with an earsplitting creak then came crashing down across the quarterdeck, crushing the ship’s helm and—though he tried his best to leap clear of its path—knocking him down and trapping his leg beneath it. 

He was quite a young man, this first mate, perhaps too young for the responsibility he carried on his narrow shoulders, but he had carried it for so long now that its weight was as intrinsic to him as the blue of his eyes. Those eyes glinted now with a grim determination as he shoved at the mast, feeling certain that any attempt to dislodge it could only be a vain one but unable to abide inaction as the pirate ship swung about and came up on the flagship broadsides. He pushed against the mast with all the surprising strength of his thin arms, bracing his shoulders and putting all his weight behind them, but it refused to budge. 

With a growl of frustration he ceased his efforts, collapsed back against the ship’s rail and watched helplessly as the pirates began to board the Queen’s vessel and subdue her crew. The manner of their attack caught his attention and caused his frown to deepen: methodical, dispassionate, and far more terrifying in its cool efficiency than howling, frenzied bloodlust would have been. This was clearly not their first cotillion; not only had their gunner known precisely where and how to hit the naval vessel to disable her completely, but the pirates themselves carried out their onslaught on the decks with a strategy and discipline that rivalled that of the military itself. Or rather, it was precisely the sort of onslaught that standard military discipline would most struggle to repel. 

_Interesting._

The first mate watched the events on the lower decks unfold thorough eyes narrowed in speculation, taking in every detail. The Queen’s men fought as valiantly as could be expected, considering most were conscripts like himself and more concerned with their own survival than the glory of their monarch, but they were no match for the pirates’ skill and ruthlessness. One by one they fell, each more easily than the last, and by the time the pirate captain sauntered up to where he lay pinned to the quarterdeck the first mate had accepted that surrender was his only option

“Are you the captain of this vessel?” the pirate inquired, and the first mate took his time in answering as he assessed the man before him. Fairly standard pirate, he concluded dismissively, all black leather and dark-rimmed eyes with elaborate embroidery on his bright red waistcoat. The first mate was far more interested in the figure at his side, a slender, lithe one, dressed in tan breeches and a blue coat with a long tail of golden hair just visible beneath a sweeping feathered hat. 

_A woman,_ the first mate marvelled. There could be no question of it now that he was close enough to see the delicate lines of her profile, the curve of her waist as she rested her hand on the pommel of the sword at her hip. A woman, who had fought alongside the captain and now stood beside him as an equal. One whose skill with her sword had caught the first mate’s eye even in the midst of the battle fray— smooth and daring and masterfully controlled. One he’d seen with his own eyes vanquish at least five of the Queen’s crew. This—_she_—was a good deal more intriguing than the pirate captain himself, with his poncy coat and his eyeliner. 

The pirate raised an eyebrow. “Well?” he prompted.

“I’m the first mate.” 

“And where’s your captain?” 

Probably in his cabin, polishing his sword, thought the first mate with an internal sneer. Their captain owed his position to his unfailing loyalty to their Queen, but loyalty did not equal ability and it most certainly did not denote courage. 

“Well, I’d ask you to take me to him,” smirked the pirate. “But you appear somewhat incapacitated. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to direct us to his cabin.” 

“And why should I do that?” snapped the first mate. He might have accepted the inevitability of his surrender, but he didn’t have to make it easy for them. 

“We are prepared to offer you (_we_ the first mate noted, glancing again at the woman) the same deal that we offered your crew. Pledge fealty to us, and we will see your wounds are treated and you are given quarter, and a place on my ship. A share in both the work and the spoils.”

(_We_ offer you, but _my_ ship. Fascinating.) 

“Fealty,” echoed the first mate. “That’s a strong word for pirates. Who are you, exactly, to make such a demand?” 

“I am Killian Jones, captain of the_ Jolly Roger_. And this—” he indicated the woman with a soft, involuntary smile that sang of tender and abiding love (the first mate’s jaw dropped) “—is Princess Emma of Misthaven.” 

“Princess Em—” scoffed the first mate, but then the woman turned her head to look straight at him. The rising sunlight hit her face and the first mate gasped. He had seen a rendering of Princess Emma —long ago, he did not care to think on it— and barring some miracle of false resemblance, this was surely she. Dressed as a pirate. Fighting in pirate battles. With a pirate captain gazing at her as though she’d hung the stars. 

Well that more than adequately explained their demand for fealty, the first mate reflected, though he found it odd that they should be so free with the princess’s identity. A missing princess, specifically Emma of Misthaven, was a thing in which his Queen —among numerous others— would surely take the keenest interest. Yet here they were, announcing her openly as if the quarterdeck of a sinking ship were a bloody palace ballroom. 

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing as best he could whilst sprawled out at her feet with his leg crushed beneath the fallen mainmast. “Lieutenant William Jones, First Mate of Her Majesty’s Ship _The Soaring Raven_. At your service.” 

“Jones,” said the princess, with a teasing smile at the pirate. “Relative of yours?” 

“It’s a fairly common name, love,” the captain replied. “I’m sure I’d know if I had any close relations still living.” His tone was light but a small frown creased his brow as he regarded First Mate Jones more closely, taking in the shape of his cheekbones and the colour of his eyes. “So what say you, lad?” he challenged. “Will you join us, or will we leave you here to bleed out on the deck?” 

Lieutenant Jones gave the pirate a hard stare. The man’s face wore a smirk that the younger Jones would love to punch off it but there was intelligence in his eyes and courage in his bearing, and a crew behind him who had captured the finest ship in the Royal Navy as easily as drawing breath. And a princess at his side who looked at him with as much love as he clearly felt for her— as though he’d hung the moon to match her stars. It seemed there was more to Killian Jones than black leather and attitude, and despite himself William Jones was intrigued. 

The young man made his decision. A rash one perhaps but fully his own, and he found that the rush of choosing his fate for himself, whether wisely or not, exhilarated him. The sea was in his blood but the Queen’s navy had not been his choice, he reasoned. What did it matter what flag he sailed under so long as he sailed? 

With a smirk of his own he met his new captain’s eyes. “I pledge my fealty,” he said. “I will join your crew.” 


	3. The Pirate and the Princess (again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the pirate and the princess fall in love and there are sexy times.

Emma returned the tavern the next night and then the next, and the one after that. Each night she found Killian already there, waiting to greet her with a smile and a quip and a spark in his eyes that found its tinder in her own. It was just a flirtation, they told themselves at first, simple, harmless banter over dice and rum. Banter that grew into conversation, thoughts and dreams and secrets exchanged, glances lingering longer, deeper, until the clamour of the tavern faded away and they saw only each other. 

Incidental touches—shoulders grazing as they sat on the tavern bench, fingers brushing as they exchanged the dice—became more deliberate; became legs pressed together beneath the table, fingers curled around fingers, noses brushing cheeks and into hair as they murmured low in the other’s ears. 

In the early mornings when dawn was just beginning to light the sky they would walk together back to the palace, to the broken place in the garden wall where she slipped away and then back again unnoticed by the guards. There they would stand with barely a breath between them, eyes locked and blood pounding until he sighed and stepped back and walked away. 

The game they were playing was one that could have no winner, this Killian knew, but it _was_ one he could lose, and lose badly. His feelings terrified him, the impossible speed and strength of them, but mostly the way each and every one he saw mirrored in Emma’s eyes. Eyes that caught his with increasing frequency as the nights wore on, eyes that he could get lost in, _did_ get lost in, until he nearly lost himself enough to accept what they were offering. Her eyes promised everything he longed for but wouldn’t take, _couldn’t_ take and still hold on to the ragged scraps of his honour. 

Whatever their feelings, however strong their understanding, there was no future they could ever share, no feasible path their lives could take that would end in _happily ever after_. Not for them. Not for him.

~

“I have to go,” he told her softly on the fourth night. “We’ve been here far too long already and my crew is restless.” 

Her heart stopped, then started again fast and frantic. “When?” 

“Tomorrow.” 

She nodded, fighting back the wave of desperate sadness that threatened to drown her. She’d known this was coming, of course she had. Of course he couldn’t stay. But it still felt far too soon, and her life without him empty and pointless. 

It was ridiculous to feel this way, she told herself firmly. There was nothing between them, nothing but a bit of flirting. They hadn’t even kissed. 

And now he was leaving. 

Her eyes dropped to his lips and she heard him gasp, felt the tension in his body as she drew even closer, until her breasts brushed against the buttons on his vest and she could feel his heart pounding as hard and fast as her own. 

“Killian,” she murmured, reaching a trembling hand up to trace along his jaw, the first truly overt touch between them since he’d kissed her hand in Arendelle. He pressed his cheek into her palm but held his posture rigid and made no move to reciprocate the advance. 

“Emma,” he breathed. “You shouldn’t—” 

“Shouldn’t what?” she whispered, pressing herself flush against him, her other hand sliding up his arm to curl around his neck. 

“Shouldn’t—” he broke off on a groan as her fingers sank into his hair. “You’d better be bloody sure about this, love.” 

“I am.” 

The words had barely left her mouth when his lips were on hers. They were gentle at first, tentative, until she made a small, frustrated moan at the back of her throat and he seemed to snap. His arms came around her almost roughly, his hand tangling in her hair to tilt her head back so he could kiss her deeper, urging her mouth open and her tongue against his. 

_This,_ thought Emma. This was what she had been longing for from him, what the hot, fluttery feelings he ignited in her belly had been hinting at. Those flickering flames were an inferno now, burning away her awareness of where they were and any sense of caution. All she knew was that she wanted _more_. She wanted to touch his skin and feel his touch on hers, wanted him to ease this yearning ache inside her. She was certain that only he could. She ran her hands down his chest and around his waist, clawing at his clothing, frustrated by the multitude of buckles and laces, the layers of leather that stood between her and that bare skin she _needed_ to feel. 

He broke their kiss, leaning his forehead against hers and taking her hands, stilling them. “Love, we can’t,” he panted. 

“Why _not?_” 

“We’re right out in the open! And you don’t—” he swallowed hard. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” 

“I do so!” 

“Emma—” 

“I’m not entirely inexperienced, you know, Killian!” 

“_What?_”

She flushed. “Not… that. But I’ve experimented. I know what I like.” It was a slight exaggeration; she’d been kissed before—though nothing like the way Killian kissed her—but she was prepared to stretch the truth right to its breaking point if it would get him to kiss her again. 

His eyes darkened with an intent that made her stomach clench but before he could respond the sound of boots on the pavement startled them both. Emma spun around to see three palace guards emerging from the early morning mist. 

“What’s all this th—_Princess!_” said one. “Erm—Your Highness, what are you doing out here?” 

Emma wondered frantically why they were all looking at her, why they weren’t drawing their swords, calling for backup to capture the pirate, then she glanced around and realised that Killian was gone. 

“I’m… just getting some air,” she replied. 

“Outside the palace?” the guard said hesitantly. “Your Highness, it can be dangerous—” 

“I’m fine,” snapped Emma. “I couldn’t sleep so I came out for a walk. That’s all. Now return to your duties and speak of this to no one.” 

The guard looked torn. “But Your High—”

“You are dismissed,” said Emma in her most regal tone, chin in the air and eyes hard as ice. 

“Yes, Your Highness.” The guards bowed to her and retreated. 

The moment they were gone she spun around, peering into the lightening shadows, but there was no sign of her pirate. “Killian, where are you?” she called, as loudly as she dared. “_Killian!_” 

But no response came. 

~

She was lying in her bed that evening, waiting for the palace to settle down for the night so she could sneak away to the tavern, when the sound of a boot slipping on stone and a muffled curse caught her attention. 

“Bloody buggering hell!” said a voice, and Emma swallowed a laugh. She couldn’t however suppress the surge of joy in her chest, and when Killian emerged through her bedroom window she was waiting for him. 

She flung herself at him the moment his boots hit the floor, heedless of the thin garments she wore, but his arms had barely closed around her when she drew back and smacked him in the shoulder. 

“Ow!” he cried, looking indignant. “What was that for?” 

“I was worried about you,” she hissed. “Why did you disappear this morning? _How_ did you disappear?”

“Pirate, love,” he replied with a smirk. “Which should answer both your questions. I didn’t fancy my chances of survival if I were caught sneaking a kiss from you in the middle of the bloody street.” 

“And you think it will go better for you if you’re caught here in my bedroom?” 

“Ah, but I don’t intend to get caught here.” 

“There are guards right outside my door, Killian. It’s a wonder they haven’t already—” She broke off as realisation dawned. “What did you do?” 

“I? Not a thing. Smee may have snuck a drop or two of sleeping potion into their wine, however.” 

“What!” 

“Nothing harmful, darling, just something to ensure they won’t trouble us.” His expression turned serious. “I sail at dawn,” he said. “But I had to see you again before I go. Privately, so we can talk.” He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead with gentle fingers. “There’s something I— I feel I have to tell you. I know I shouldn’t and it’s bloody pointless, but I can’t help myself, Emma, I lo—” his words were cut off by her kiss. 

“I know,” she whispered against his mouth. “I know. But don’t— don’t say it, please. It’s hard enough to let you go without those words between us.” 

“As you wish.” 

His hesitation from that morning was nowhere to be found now as he kissed her again, insistently, his hands warm through the thin fabric of her nightgown as they stroked down her body, mirroring the sweep of his tongue against hers. Emma wound her arms around his neck, pressing closer, frustrated again by all the clothes he wore. 

“You are seriously overdressed, pirate,” she purred, tugging at the clasps on his vest. 

“Aye,” he agreed in a growl against her lips, walking them back towards her bed as he deftly undid his vest and shirt while continuing to kiss her. She fumbled with the laces on his trousers, her heart thundering and her breath short with anticipation of seeing him completely unclothed. 

He pulled off his shirt and kicked off his trousers and she sank down onto the bed, her knees gone too weak to support her. He was breathtaking, the planes and angles of his body illuminated by the moonlight through her window, all smooth skin and dark hair and lean muscle. She knew she was staring, her eyes wide and her mouth open, but she couldn’t help herself. He was so, so much better than she could ever have imagined. 

He was watching her watch him, the expression on his face almost shy. “Now who’s overdressed,” he said, his voice gone deep and rough, tugging at the neckline of her gown with his finger. He knelt in front of her and curled his hand around her ankle, his gaze intent on her as he slowly slid it up her leg to her knee, lifting her gown as he went. Her skin felt like it was on fire where he touched it and she began to breathe in panting gasps when his hand curved over her knee and up the outside of her thigh. 

“Are you all right, love?” he murmured. 

“I’m not sure,” she said truthfully. “But don’t stop.” 

He chuckled and did the same to her other leg with his other hand, tugging the gown from under her as he went, and when he lifted it over her head and tossed it away it was his turn to stare. “You’re so beautiful, Emma,” he breathed. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” 

“You must not own a mirror, then,” she replied, with no intention of being funny though he grinned all the same. 

“Let’s chalk it up to differences in taste,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her softly, his hand stroking over her hip, pressing her back down onto the bed. She gasped at the soft abrasion of his chest hair against her nipples and the hard press of his— manhood? Member? She had no idea what to call it, a royal education didn’t exactly cover the finer points of human anatomy, but whatever its name it was hard and thick against her belly and she wasn’t sure if she was excited or terrified or both. 

She reached down and touched it, tentatively at first, alarmed when he hissed in a breath, but then he nodded encouragingly and she grasped it more firmly. She was surprised by how smooth the skin was, and how hot. 

Killian’s breathing was harsh and ragged. “You know what this involves, Emma?” he asked. “What— what we’ll do together.” 

She nodded. Her formal education may be sadly lacking but she’d still heard talk. “You put this in—inside me.” 

“Aye. Is that all right?” 

“Yes. Honestly, I’m a bit scared but I want to. With you. I couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone but you.” 

He winced at that. “Emma, I—” 

“It’s okay.” She put her hand on his cheek, urging him to meet her eyes. “I know I’m not your first. It doesn’t matter.” 

“If I had known I would meet you, that I would feel like this, I’d have waited,” he said earnestly. “The others meant nothing, but _you_…” 

“I know. Don’t say it.” 

“Aye. Let me show you instead.” 

He stroked his hand up her thigh, over the curve of her waist, up to the side of her breast, watching her carefully to gauge her reactions. When he brushed his fingertips over her nipple she moaned, then flushed bright pink. 

“I’m sorry, I—” 

“Don’t _apologise_, love, I want to hear you.” 

“Really? Why?” 

“It’s— well, it’s very arousing.”

“_Really?_”

“Hearing you moan when I touch you, knowing it’s because I’m making you feel good? Hells yes. You have nothing to hide, darling, not from me. Tell me everything, what you like and don’t like and what you want more of. Don’t hold back.” 

“In that case, I’d like more of what you just did.” 

“Of this?” He brushed his fingertips over her nipple again. “Does that feel good?”

She sighed. “Yes.” 

“What about this?” he pressed a light kiss on the other nipple. 

“Oh, yes!” 

“And this?” He took the nipple into his mouth and swirled his tongue around it. Emma gripped his hair, half to hold him close and half to try to keep control of the sensations surging through her. Her skin was hot and tingling and an odd, throbbing ache was forming low in her belly. A throbbing and very _wet_ ache. 

She groped for the words to express what she wanted but her mind was all in a whirl and they wouldn’t come. In desperation she grabbed Killian’s hand, pulling it from her breast and guiding it downwards. When his fingers came in contact with the slick moisture between her legs he groaned around her nipple and stroked deeper, gathering the wetness on his fingers then pressing gently against a spot that made her scream. 

“Oh! Oh, is that— is it supposed to—” 

“Aye,” he rasped. “It’s supposed to.” He pressed again, harder, rubbing circles with his finger and she began to writhe. 

“Oh Killian, oh I don’t think— I can’t—” 

“Yes you can. Let it happen.” 

He kissed her, his tongue deep in her mouth then trailing down her neck and back to her breast, sucking her nipple hard and nipping it just lightly with his teeth. His fingers continued to stroke her, to rub _that_ spot, stoking the sensations within her until she felt ready to explode. 

_Let it happen_, he’d said. 

Emma dug her fingernails into his shoulder, her other hand clenched tightly in the bedclothes, and focused on the feel of his mouth and hands on her skin and the hot, intense energy building and coiling inside her, tighter and tighter and _tighter _until it burst and she cried out, stretched taut and trembling as Killian’s gentle fingers eased her through it. 

When she fell bonelessly back against the mattress he gathered her into his arms and stroked her hair until her breathing evened out and she felt able to think again. She could feel him hard and hotter than ever against her hip and she reached down to brush her fingertips up his length. He caught his breath but didn’t stop her, instead shifting back so she could explore him more thoroughly. 

“You didn’t—” she began. 

“Not yet.” 

“So we can… do more?” 

“Love, we can do this all night.” 

She wrapped her hand around him and squeezed, gently at first then harder when he made a choking noise and thrust his hips forward, pushing himself more firmly into her palm. 

“Does that feel good?” she asked him. 

“You have no idea.” 

“I think I do. If it’s anything like when you touched me. Will you— can we—” 

He understood. “Aye, we absolutely can.” 

He rolled her beneath him and settled between her legs, nudging them further apart to accommodate him. His eyes were glassy and dazed and a bit frantic, and when his length brushed her damp curls he groaned. 

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, almost to himself. 

“Is that okay?” 

He gave a manic laugh. “It’s bloody amazing. You feel so good already, I—” He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, and when he opened them again they were calmer. “I’m told this can be painful for women, the first time,” he said. “I’ll do my best to be gentle and go slow, but— you tell me if you need me to stop.” 

She nodded, and he smiled. “Ready?” 

“Yes.” 

She caught her breath and held it, trying not to tense up as she felt the tip of him pressing against her opening and then inside her. He rocked his hips slowly, easing his way inch by inch until he was fully seated. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, she thought with a small frown, more a burning than actual pain but the feeling of fullness and invasion into her body she wasn’t sure she liked. 

_Thank goodness it’s Killian_. 

“Are you all right, love?” he asked her in a voice tight with strain. 

“I’m not sure,” she replied honestly, squirming beneath him, trying to adjust. “Is this it?” 

“Gods, no.” 

“Well what else— oh!” She gasped as he slowly pulled out of her then pushed back in again. It felt better the second time as the burning began to ease and her body became used to his, moisture flowing freely again and coating him as he began to move faster. On instinct, she angled her hips and wrapped her leg around his waist and they moaned together when he sank in deeper on the next thrust. This was starting to feel good, she realised, _very_ good, as his body hit _that_ spot he’d touched before and it began to throb. She wrapped her other leg around him, digging her heels into his backside to press him closer, urge him deeper. 

“Emma,” he groaned. “I’m so close. I need you to—” He took her hand and slipped it between them, pressing her fingers onto _that_ spot. She trembled at the contact and her eyes widened as she rubbed herself, hesitantly at first and then more firmly as his hand slid down to grip her thigh and he began to move even faster, deeper, driving her into her mattress. The pressure was coiling within her again and she rubbed herself harder, clenched her muscles tightly around him, and then she exploded once again, even more powerfully than the first time. He thrust twice more then with a hoarse cry pulled out of her and she felt a hot, viscous liquid spurt onto her belly. 

He collapsed next to her and pressed his face into her hair as she curled her hand around his arm and held it tightly. When their breathing had calmed and the cool night air began to chill their skin he rolled from the bed and went to her washstand, returning a moment later with a damp linen cloth. Gently he wiped it over her belly and between her legs, then pulled back the blankets for her. She slid beneath them, fearing for a moment that he meant to get dressed and leave, but instead he returned the cloth to the washstand then crawled into bed behind her, pulling her snugly against his chest and tucking the blanket around them both. 

“Why did you—” She hesitated, unsure of how to finish the question, but Killian understood. He always understood her. 

“I don’t want to leave you with a child,” he said, and the simple words weighed heavy with meaning. 

_I don’t want to leave you._

_~_

As she lay cradled against his chest, feeling its rhythmic rise and fall as he breathed in time with the gentle caress of his fingers through her hair, Emma had to fight to keep her eyes open. Her body begged for sleep but she refused to allow it, couldn’t bear to miss a moment of their time together. Soon he would be gone and she had no idea when—_if_—she might see him again. 

“I’ll come back,” Killian murmured, reading her thoughts. “I promise. It may be a few months, but I will see you again.” 

She nodded, blinking away the tears that tried to form behind her eyes. 

“Not a day will go by that I won’t think of you,” he said softly, and the tears fell. 

_I love you_, she wanted to tell him, wanted to hear him say it back, but she knew that if she heard those words from his lips she’d never be able to let him go. She was certain he felt as she did, could all but feel his love envelop her as she pressed her face against his neck. His arms tightened around her, so tight she could barely breathe but she wished they were tighter. She wished she could sink into him so they could never be parted again. 

“Please don’t cry, my darling,” he whispered, in a voice thick with his own tears. “You’re breaking my heart.” 

“You’re breaking mine,” she sobbed. “You’re leaving.” 

“What else can I do?” 

She had no answer for that. Neither of them did. He stroked her hair and let her cry until her tears were spent, until she cried herself to sleep. 

When she awoke he was gone. 


	4. Lieutenant William Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IN WHICH We learn more about Lieutenant William Jones, and the ship he is now a part of, and MYSTERY IS FORESHADOWED.

Lieutenant William Jones concluded, after some consideration, that he was not especially surprised to learn that life on a pirate ship was not so very different from life on a ship in service of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. A ship was a ship, after all; the same tasks needed to be performed to keep her afloat, the same command structure had to be enforced, and even the mission goals were not terribly dissimilar. The line between plunder and conquest was a very fine one, comprising delicate questions of politics in which Lt Jones took no interest. All he wanted was to sail and to see the world, and the company he kept whilst doing so mattered little. 

There were some aspects of his new pirate’s life that did surprise him. The ship they sailed was an exceptionally fine one, with impossible speed and manoeuvrability which he soon deduced could only be the result of enchantment. Once going she could maintain her momentum even without wind, and after a few weeks’ careful observation of how her captain handled her, the lieutenant began to wonder if the crew was in fact necessary at all. 

Captain Jones kept his ship in pristine order and condition, and commanded the crew with military-grade discipline. So far as he had ever considered the question, Lt Jones imagined pirates to be an unruly lot, unwashed and obstreperous and prepared at any moment to mutiny. Instead they —or at least those on the crew of the _Jolly Roger_— were meticulous and tidy and their respect for their captain showed in every action they took. 

There was _quite_ a lot of carousing, however. 

And yet the only thing that truly astonished the young lieutenant was the princess. Quite apart from the extraordinary fact of a princess sailing with pirates at all, it was obvious from his earliest days among the crew that they loved her nearly as much as their captain did, and there was never any muttering about the bad luck of having a woman on board or any challenge to her authority or her place on the ship. She knew each member of the crew by name, and greeted them with a warm smile and and jest that was as effective at keeping discipline as the captain’s more traditional approach. And while Lt Jones believed that the princess’s warmth and interest were genuine, he also saw the strategy behind her actions. She needed this ship and its crew for something, some purpose far outside the usual purview of a pirate ship, and the best way to ensure the crew’s cooperation in unusual or trying circumstances would be to win their loyalty. 

~

His first few weeks aboard the ship were spent in the infirmary, definitely a surprising experience for the young lieutenant. Infirmaries on naval vessels were grim places where the stench of blood and rotting flesh was infused into the very walls and men were as like to die of disease as of any injury sustained in battle. The infirmary aboard the Jolly Roger was, by contrast, utterly pristine, with cots covered in clean linen and instruments crafted of gleaming metal and air that carried a sharp, astringent odour, not wholly pleasant but compared to the putrefaction the lieutenant was accustomed to, vastly to be preferred. It was run with an iron fist and an air of benign insanity by a man who introduced himself as “Whale” and did not amputate Lt Jones’s leg. 

Lt Jones, who had already resigned himself to the loss of his limb, found he was almost disappointed. He’d been rather enjoying the notion of himself as a proper peg-legged pirate. But Whale informed him, with a grin that exposed rather more teeth than seemed appropriate for a human head, that there was no need to waste a perfectly useful and very well-formed body part, and proceeded to hand Lt Jones a rag soaked in liquid and wafting fumes with the same pungent aroma that permeated the air and instructed him to hold it to his face. This he did, hesitantly at first and then with greater enthusiasm as the edges of his vision blurred pleasantly and his body went numb, and he he began to fancy he was floating. 

He watched with detached curiosity as Whale deftly reset the crushed bone in his leg, secured it within a splint constructed of thin and flexible slats of wood then wrapped the whole affair up with strips of fine linen dipped in a substance that looked like wet clay, watery and pale grey, mottled with specks of green. After twenty-four hours this clay had dried to form a remarkably solid and resilient cast, and Whale’s pallid face wore a pleased expression as he rapped his knuckles up and down the length of it. 

“Hmm, yes,” he said, nodding in approval and flashing a grin that raised goose pimples on Lt Jones’s arms. “That will do nicely.” 

From the infirmary’s supply closet he produced a selection of wooden crutches, which he proceeded to measure against the lieutenant’s back until he found the one best suited to his height. This he instructed Lt Jones to use to take daily exercise on the decks, along with a regimen of lifting, bending and stretching designed to keep his muscles strong and limber and his joints flexible. Lt Jones followed these instructions to the letter and after a week or so Whale permitted him to spend several hours a day performing menial tasks alongside the crew, provided they did not result in getting his cast wet. The remainder of each day he spent in the infirmary, resting and drinking cups of bitter tea at regular intervals under Whale’s glittering and watchful eyes.

After several weeks of this routine Whale pronounced that the time had come to remove the cast. He began by making a fissure down the length of it with a hammer and a tiny chisel, then gripped it tightly on either side and wrenched the whole thing apart into two equal pieces like the shell of a walnut, revealing a perfectly healed and unscarred leg within. 

Lt Jones stared at it. “But— how?” he stammered. 

“Healing herbs in the clay,” said Whale. “Among other things.” He gave the empty teacup in Lt Jones’s hand a significant glance and grinned his jovial, manic grin, and Lt Jones reflected that perhaps the prospect of leaving the infirmary, hopefully for good, was not at all a bad thing. 

Once Whale had swabbed the clinging bits of clay from his leg with a clean linen cloth dipped in another mysterious solution, Lt Jones stood from his cot and gingerly put weight on his newly healed limb. Finding it as hale and whole and sturdy as ever, he began to walk around the room, at first cautiously then with more confidence, even capping his tour by dancing a little jig. 

“Excellent,” said Whale, his pale eyes glinting. “I’ll have to remember that formulation. Most, most excellent.” 

At that moment there was a knock on the door and the quartermaster’s mate appeared, holding a stack of fresh and neatly folded clothes for Lt Jones plus his own shoes, cleaned and shined. Gratefully abandoning the split trousers and single slipper he had worn for the duration of his convalescence, Lt Jones dressed quickly and followed the quartermaster’s mate, a man called Teynte, to the crew’s quarters where he found waiting for him his own bunk, sea chest, and leather flask. 

“Bunk t’ sleep, chest t’ keep, and flask t’ drink, said Teynte cheerfully.

Lt Jones sniffed the flask dubiously. “Drink what?” he asked. 

“Grog, o’ course,” said Teynte. “The cap’n’s right generous wi’ it.” 

“Grog? You mean _rum_.” 

“Aye, rum ’tis, along wi’ lemons and a touch o’ sugar. Ye’d best drink it, Navy lad, it keeps ye healthy, so it do. There be times, weeks on end as can be, when we sees no food but fish and ship’s biscuit, ye’ll be grateful fer a spot o’ grog then t’ stave off th’ scurvy.” 

“Hmmm,” said Lt Jones. “I see your point.” Scurvy was rampant in the Queen’s Navy and he had witnessed with his own eyes the suffering it caused. Raising the flask first in toast to Teynte’s good health and then to his lips he took a cautious sip. The liquid was sharp and burned down his throat, but it was not altogether unpleasant. He sipped again, more generously. “I believe I could get used to this,” he said with a grin. 

“Haha! We’ll make a pirate o’ ye yet, laddie!” cried Teynte with a clap to his back that nearly sent him reeling. “Reckon the princess be right about ye.” 

~

Lieutenant Jones had of course noticed—it hadn’t taken him long—that he was the object of particular scrutiny from both the princess and the captain. More than once he had felt their eyes upon him as he did his daily exercise on the deck, and each had—separately and, he suspected, without the other’s knowledge— stopped in to see him in the infirmary, with overly casual airs and subtle but pointed questions concerning the progress of his recovery. 

A month or so after he had fully taken up his duties aboard the ship he began to get an inkling of the purpose behind their interest. The day was a bright and sunny one, freshened by a cool, salty breeze that bore a hint of spice, and Princess Emma and Captain Jones were up on deck for one of their regular sparring sessions. The crew, though they mostly succeeded in appearing to keep their attention on their tasks, watched closely, Lt Jones among them. A very active and hotly contested betting pool on the outcomes of these sessions flourished below decks; although they nearly always ended in a draw, as Smee informed Lt Jones, the crew held out hope that some day one of the two of them would actually manage to defeat the other. And on that halcyon day one of the crew would make a killing off it. 

A pirate’s life indeed. 

Lt Jones could not help thinking that today was likely not that day. In swordplay as indeed in most things the combatants were remarkably well matched, with the captain’s greater height and strength balanced perfectly by the princess’s speed and precision. What amused him more than any speculation over who—if anyone—might win was the way they sparred with words as well as with blades, taunts and innuendoes flying fast and thick as they feinted, thrust, and parried. When the match ended—in a draw, of course—both participants were panting and dripping sweat, and eyeing each other in a way that made Lt Jones long for some shore leave. 

However on that morning rather than ushering the princess to their cabin and bolting the door behind them, Captain Jones approached his lieutenant of the same name, and offered the younger Jones his blade. 

“Care to have a go, lad?” he asked, with a quirked eyebrow and a small grin.

“Against the princess?” stammered Lt Jones. 

“Aye.” The captain’s grin widened. “Think you can handle her?” 

“Er… no, if I’m honest.” 

Captain Jones laughed. “That is the correct answer, my boy. Try anyway. Show us what you’ve got.” 

Lt Jones stared at the man, searching his face for any sign of trickery. When he detected none he cautiously accepted the proffered sword and gave it an experimental swing. Though far from an expert in sword design he could tell instantly that the balance of the blade and the hilt was perfect, the result of expert craftsmanship. He swung it again, trying to get a feel for it. Princess Emma stood watching him with an amused expression and casual posture, though it did not escape his notice that she stood on the balls of her feet with her shoulders back, prepared at any moment to spring into action. 

“Ready to go, Lieutenant?” she asked. 

He bowed. “When you are, Your Highness.” 

She attacked first, leaping smoothly into the exact move he had expected her to make, with such a speed and skill that he was only barely able to parry it. Their blades met with a clang of metal and he felt the vibrations all the way up his arm. Her slender appearance was deceptive, he realised; she was far stronger than he’d thought, with a skill that could only come from many years of training under the tutelage of a master. He was in way, way over his head. 

On the strength of that realisation, he altered his strategy. This was not a fight he could win, not through skill at any rate, but he might be able to bring it to a draw. She was tired from her earlier sparring with the captain, but he was fresh, and if he could just avert a killing blow he might be able to outlast her. 

He concentrated on deflecting her attacks, holding her off but never moving in himself, never giving her the opportunity to dart in around him as he swung his sword arm as he had seen her do to the captain. He danced around the deck, forcing her to chase him as she advanced, defending, defending, defending until finally she held up her sword. 

“All right,” she said. “I’m calling it. It’s a draw.” 

Her next words were quiet, drowned out by the cheers of the crew. They were for his ears alone. “A draw in this case means you won,” she said. “Well played.”

“Well played indeed,” said Captain Jones, clapping him on the back. “You’re quite a clever lad, aren’t you?” 

“I like to think so, sir.” 

“And one with a sound instinct for survival.” 

“Yes.” 

“Excellent.” Captain Jones squeezed his shoulder. “Excellent.” A look passed between him and the princess, one Lt Jones could not decipher. “Well, now you’ve had your fun, Lieutenant, I’m afraid it’s back to work for you!” 

“Aye, sir!” 

The captain turned away and put his arm around the princess’s shoulders. Hers slipped around his waist and they headed off to their cabin together. 

~

Three weeks later, Lt Jones received a message summoning him to the captain’s quarters. He presented himself to Mr Smee, who was standing guard outside the door and gave it a sharp knock on his behalf, and was bade enter by a curt ‘Yes’ from within. Smee opened the door to reveal the captain sitting at his desk with maps and documents strewn out around him, and the princess standing at his side with her hand on his shoulder. 

“Ah, young Jones,” said the captain. “Right on time. Come in and shut the door behind you.” 


	5. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IN WHICH the pirate returns after a long absence, smut is smutted, a plan is hatched, and Lieutenant Jones learns what the heck is going on.

With Killian gone Emma’s world felt dull and grey, each day following on from the one before in an endless chain of monotony. In the morning she arose and dressed and ate and performed her royal tasks, maintaining her schedule out of a sense of duty to her parents and her body and her kingdom, though all she truly wished to do was curl up beneath the thick quilts on her bed and never move again. In her mind’s eye she could see her future stretched out before her, flat and featureless as the landscapes of the inland kingdoms, lacking only the husband her parents so wished for her to choose. The thought of living out that life for years, for _decades_, squeezed her chest in tight bands of panic and the thought of marrying a man who wasn’t Killian—of doing with anyone else the things that they had done together—actually made her skin crawl. 

A lifetime of duty and protocol and decorum. A lifetime of no Killian. No arrogant pirate to challenge her, or to entice her with his wicked grin and his eyes like the sea, cold and sharp until they landed on her and softened into the summer sky. 

She tried to tell herself that they had only spent five days together and that she had lived her life perfectly well, been perfectly content before she met him. But the truth was that he had changed everything for her, and life no longer felt satisfying without him in it. Daily she struggled against the fear that something might happen to him. If he were injured or—her mind shied from the thought—_killed_, how would she ever know? She would wait for him, for endless days and months and years but he would never return, and she would have no way of knowing what terrible fate had befallen him. 

She wished with increasing sorrow as the weeks wore on that she had told him of her love. If he were to die without ever hearing her say those words, without ever saying them back to her… but she forced that thought from her mind. He wasn’t going to die. He would be back. He’d _promised_, and she knew with the same certainty that assured her the sun would rise in the east each morning that, pirate or not, Killian Jones was a man of his word. 

As the weeks dragged into months Emma’s moodiness increased, leaving her irritable and snappish one moment and utterly listless the next. Her parents didn’t pry but she could tell they were deeply concerned. She felt their worried gazes on her when she spoke sharply to the royal ministers, saw the glances they exchanged at the dinner table when she picked at the food she used to love and the anxious way they frowned when they found her wandering aimlessly through the palace or standing for long hours at her window, staring out at the sea. They each found little ways to show her their support, from the fresh flowers her mother ensured were always in her bedchamber to her father’s overly-jovial insistence that she keep up her sword training with him so as not to fall out of practice. Emma made a show of protest but deep down she treasured their efforts, and their patience, and the way they always made sure she felt the strength of their love surrounding her. 

Until the day they didn’t. 

~

Six months after she had sailed from Misthaven, the _Jolly Roger_ and her crew returned. As the harbour came into view over the horizon, Killian forced himself to appear calm, to perform his duties and command his crew as they expected, in defiance of the nervous anxiety clawing at his chest. The past half year had been the longest of his life, every spare moment of it filled with thoughts of Emma and every night haunted by dreams of her. More times than he could count he had relived their single night together, alone and aching in his bunk, and in his dreams his imagination had roamed free, into places they had never been together, acts they had yet to perform. When his ship was in port he found he could no longer bear the noise and hearty genial atmosphere of the taverns, could not even feign an interest in the drinking and wenching that he’d once so enjoyed. He found himself slipping away earlier and earlier, back to the ship to sip his rum alone and torture himself with thoughts of the only woman he wanted, leaving Smee to smooth things over with the crew. Smee alone knew the true identity of the supposed tavern wench he had dallied with in Misthaven, and only Smee knew the depth of Killian’s feelings for her. He knew he could trust Smee, both the man’s loyalty and his fear of his captain’s wrath to keep that secret safe. 

If only he could be as sure of Emma. The closer they got to Misthaven the more Killian’s anxiety grew, tightening the knot in his chest to an unbearable tension. How would she feel about the way he’d left her while she slept, sneaking away without a goodbye? He’d thought only to spare her the heartache of a drawn-out farewell—spare them both, if he was honest—but what if she were angry with him, or worse, _hurt_ by what he’d done. His nightmares were plagued with horror scenarios: she was betrothed, she was already married, she was too furious to speak to him, but the very worst he could imagine was that she was hurt, suffering from something he had done. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. 

His fingers gripped the ship’s wheel as they drew closer to the harbour, their knuckles glaringly white against the deep red stones in his rings. They must be visible from Emma’s window now, he thought. Had she seen them yet? What was she thinking? What would she do? 

He forced himself to focus on his tasks until the ship was securely docked and most of his crew disembarked, off to seek their own adventures with their own women. Standing at the top of the gangplank with his heart in his throat he scanned the crowd, swallowing bitter disappointment when he caught no glimpse of her among it. His eyes dropped—and met those of his princess (_Not yours, mate_, he told himself firmly, and tried to believe it) standing right below him at the foot of the gangplank, smiling brightly as he hurried down to meet her, with an eager tension in her posture that said she wanted to throw herself into his arms nearly as much as he wanted to catch her in them. He felt the fear that she would hate him drain away, replaced by a different sort of tightness. 

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing to her. 

“Captain.” Her hands were clasped tightly, fingers twisting. “I missed you,” she blurted, then flushed. 

He thought his grin would crack his face. “I missed you too,” he replied, halting with a good foot of space remaining between them and just drinking her in. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, the morning sunlight caressing her face and glinting through the few strands of hair visible beneath the hood of her cloak, and his fingers itched to touch her. But the docks were heaving and bustling with people, decidedly not the place for the reunion he wanted. He didn’t trust himself to get any closer. 

She seemed to have the same thought. “Can we— is there anywhere we can go?” she asked. “Somewhere private.” 

Killian looked around. His crew had disembarked, everyone save the few would remain to guard the ship, leaving the Jolly Roger all but empty. Did he dare to bring Emma there, to the one place he most longed to show her? He turned back to find her biting her lip as her eyes devoured him and he swallowed a groan.“There’s my cabin.” 

She smiled, relieved and excited and vibrating with the same nervous energy he felt. “That’s perfect.” 

He returned her smile and held out his hand, gasping at the hiss of sensation when their fingers met. The idea of her in his cabin, in the very room where he had spent half a year missing her and dreaming about her made his hands shake and his heart pound, and he had to force himself not to drag her straight there. Instead he gave her a tour of his ship, enjoying the light of interest in her eyes and the way her fingers curled around his until finally he led her into his cabin. 

The moment the door closed behind them she was in his arms, her fingers gripping the lapels of his coat as her mouth pressed against his, hot and desperate. He groaned, tangling his fingers in her hair, pulling her as close as she could get, his tongue in her mouth sliding against hers until he feared he might perish from the overwhelming rush of lust and love and the sheer joy of being with her again. 

After a long moment they broke apart, gasping for air, pressing their foreheads together as she cupped his face in her hands. 

“I love you,” she said fiercely. “I should have said it before. When you were gone it felt like half of me was missing, and I love you so mu—” 

He swallowed the rest of her words with a frantic kiss. “I love you too,” he murmured against her lips. “Oh, Emma—” He broke off on an aching moan as she hooked her fingers beneath the waistband of his trousers and pulled his hips into hers. 

There was no fumbling or hesitation this time as they slipped the clothes from each other’s bodies, chasing each garment with kisses and soft touches, the press of their skin together, their gasps and moans driving them higher until Emma gripped Killian’s shoulders with desperate fingers. 

“Please,” she said. “I want—I want to—” she made a frustrated gesture and he smiled. 

“We’re going to have to work on your vocabulary, love. For now…” he pulled her down onto his bed, lying on his back and encouraging her up to straddle his hips. “Take it away, darling.” 

Her eyes went wide. “Really? I can…” 

“Aye.” He nodded. “Whatever you like. I’m entirely at your mercy.” 

She trailed her fingers down his chest, swirling them through the thick hair. “I love this,” she whispered. “It’s softer than it looks and it feels so good against—” she flushed. 

“Against your nipples,” he supplied and she nodded. 

“Against my nipples.” She let her thumbs caress his. “Are they called the same on you?” 

“Aye.” 

“And this?” She reached down and closed her hand around him, squeezing gently. “It’s so hard, but the skin is soft. What’s it called?” 

“It has many names. The correct anatomical term is ‘penis.’” 

She gave a small laugh and shook her head. “How do you _know_ this?” 

“You’d be surprised what they teach you in the Royal Navy.” 

He held his breath as her fingertips caressed him, letting her explore at her own pace despite the frantic pounding of his blood. 

“So what other names does it have?”

“Oh, all manner of them. Willy, prick, knob, pecker… but my favourite is cock. Simple, straightforward. To the point.” 

She nodded. “Cock,” she repeated, the word somehow sweet and lovely falling from her lips. “And what about my… parts? What are they called?”

“They are also known by many names. This—” he stroked her with his thumb, making her jump and gasp “—is your clitoris. It guards the entrance to your vagina.” He slid a finger inside her and she sighed, pressing herself against this hand. “Those are the anatomical terms.” 

“And the —oh, _yes_— the others?” 

“Pussy,” he whispered, stroking her more firmly. “Fanny, muff. Lady garden.”

She made a choked noise, half giggle, half moan. “Isn’t there a simple one? Like… cock.” 

“Aye. The one I prefer is cunt.” 

“Cunt,” she repeated. “And cock. So I can—” she swallowed. “I can take your cock in my cunt. Like this?” She grasped him firmly and lifted her hips. Killian pulled his fingers from her heat and curled them around her waist, guiding her as she slid down onto him. He inhaled sharply when he was fully inside, his hand clenching on her soft skin. 

“Just like that, darling,” he moaned. “Gods, you’re so bloody wet, and hot, and you feel so good around me.” 

“You feel good inside me,” she gasped in reply. “So full… it’s almost too much but also I want more? Do I just?” She rocked her hips experimentally. 

“Aye, love, exactly like that. Find a rhythm that feels good and just _fuck_ me.” 

“Fuck,” she repeated, and he could almost see her filing that word away alongside the others in her clever mind. He had no idea what he could possibly have done in his short life already so drenched in blood and betrayal, to deserve this astounding woman, to know the feeling of her grinding down on his cock with her head thrown back in pleasure, but Killian swore to her and himself and to every deity he could name that he would do whatever it took to be worthy of her. 

Emma quickly found her rhythm, bracing her hands on his legs and arching her back as she rolled her hips and clenched her muscles, and he could tell from her short, breathy moans and the flush on her skin that she was close. He didn’t dare come inside her, however much he longed to, so he pressed his thumb against her pearl—his own favoured name for the clitoris—and rubbed it gently until she cried out in bliss. She slumped against his chest and with a deft twist he rolled her beneath him, adjusted her legs around his waist and fucked deep into her, drawing out her pleasure and ratcheting up his own until with an aching groan he pulled out and spilled his release on the sheets beside her. 

She curled against his chest, almost purring in satisfaction. “Is it always like that?” she asked. 

“No.” He was still trying to catch his breath. “What we have is extraordinary. Or maybe it’s just love.” 

He felt her smile against his skin, and the soft kiss she pressed just beneath his collarbone. He tightened his arms around her and let himself drift halfway between asleep and awake until she spoke again.

“Killian, there’s something I need you to do for me.” 

He blinked himself back into full awareness. “Anything, love.” 

She snorted, most indelicately for a princess. “That’s a bold statement from a man who left me for half a year because his crew was restless,” she retorted. 

“Anything that is reasonably within my power to do, I will do for you,” he amended with a sigh. 

“Well, I think you ought to be able to do this.” 

Her voice was solemn and he heard the worry behind it. Gently he brushed the hair back from her face and tilted her chin until she met his eyes. “What is it, my love?” he asked. “What do you need me to do?” 

Slowly, choosing her words carefully, she told him of her observations, her suspicions, her theories, and what she needed from him. 

He frowned as he considered options, weighed possibilities. “I believe I can obtain what you require,” he said. “But I don’t like the idea of leaving you here, if—” 

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “I’m nothing but a spoiled and brainless princess, remember? As long as I just keep on doing what I’ve been doing, they won’t suspect a thing.” 

He nodded. “All right. But I can’t go through another separation like the last one, love, with no word between us for months on end. If I’m to do this we must have some means of communication, if I’m far away and you run into danger—” 

A grin spread across her face, a wide, triumphant grin with an edge of wicked. 

“I’ve thought of that already,” she said. “We’ll use my mother’s birds.” 

~

Four months later, Princess Emma of Misthaven disappeared from the palace gardens. No trace of her was ever found. 

\---

Lieutenant Jones entered the captain’s quarters and shut the door as instructed, then stood at military attention before the captain and the princess. 

Captain Jones chuckled. “No need for that, lad,” he said. “Have a seat.” He indicated the unoccupied chair opposite where he sat. Lieutenant Jones cast an uncertain glance at the princess, who returned a wide smile. 

“Please sit, Lieutenant Jones,” she said. “We have quite a lot to tell you and believe me, you’ll want to be sitting down for it.” 

Lieutenant Jones sat. 

The captain fixed him with a serious look. “I need to you understand before we begin that nothing we say in this room can ever leave it. Can we trust you to keep everything we discuss today in the strictest confidence?” 

“A-aye, sir.” 

“Be certain, lad. The lives of more than one person may depend on your discretion.” 

Lieutenant Jones hesitated. Loyalty was a thing that meant a great deal to him, and he bestowed it sparingly. He’d had it betrayed once, viciously, and since that day only a handful of people had ever succeeded in earning it. 

He realised with a start that two of those people were currently across the table from him, watching him closely. He nodded. “I’m certain, Captain. Nothing you tell me will go any further.” 

Captain Jones smiled, a smile that said he’d expected nothing less, one that held a hint of pride. He leaned back in his chair. “About a year and a half ago, the king and queen of Misthaven disappeared,” he said. 

“_What?_” 

“Aye, you may well be astonished.” 

“But how— I’ve heard nothing—”

“You’ve heard nothing of it because they were immediately replaced by extraordinarily well-disguised impostors. No one but their closest companions—or family—would ever spot the difference.” 

“And with them being working royalty, there aren’t many of those,” added Princess Emma. “My parents have good friends but due to their busy schedules they don’t often see them and it is easy to invent reasons to postpone any potential reunions. The only person who really might notice anything amiss is me. And notice I did.” 

“But—” began Lieutenant Jones, then broke off. 

“Speak your mind, lad,” said the captain. “Any questions you have you must feel free to ask.” 

“But wouldn’t whoever was responsible for their disappearance consider that? That you, Your Highness, would of course recognise that your parents seemed different.” 

“Yes.” She seemed pleased by the question. “Unless the person responsible thought I was nothing but an empty-headed, spoilt princess who cared nothing for anyone but myself.” 

“Who would possibly think that!” Lieutenant Jones was indignant. 

Princess Emma smiled. It wasn’t an altogether pleasant smile. “We have good reason to believe that it was your former employer. Queen Regina.” 

“The Evil Queen!” 

“Indeed. Are you familiar with her history with my parents?” 

“Aye, some of it. Your mother was her stepdaughter and she fought a war to get her kingdom back from the Evil Queen’s control.” 

“Alongside my father,” she confirmed. “Once the war was won they cut Regina off from her magic and banished her to her own small kingdom, hoping that she would have learnt the lesson of her defeat. Apparently she did not. We believe that she has managed to regain her magic and use it to abduct my parents and plant these impostors in their place.” 

Lieutenant Jones frowned. “What would be her aim in doing this?” he asked. 

“To destroy Misthaven from within,” replied the princess. “So that once the kingdom is irretrievably weakened she can step in and take over. If she attacked outright the people and the army would rally in its defence, but if the infrastructure slowly crumbles leaving them miserable and destitute then she can paint her conquest as benevolence and they will welcome her. Or at least, we believe that’s her intention.” 

“Thats— rather a complex plan.” 

“Regina is not a woman who does the straightforward thing,” said Captain Jones drily. “And she’s had quite some time to plot her revenge. This is a plan twenty years in the making.” 

The lieutenant nodded, his brow creased in thought. He ran a hand over his face, stroking the short beard on his chin. Princess Emma’s eyes narrowed but she made no comment. 

“So why are you telling me this?” asked Lieutenant Jones. “I presume you require my assistance but for what?”

“We’re telling you this because Killian and I also have a plan,” the princess replied, smiling down at the captain. “We’re going to rescue my parents. And we need your help.” 


	6. The Abduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IN WHICH a princess is abducted and plans are made, and the action is poised to begin!

The bird soared through the sky, a small brown dot against the clear blue, spreading her wings wide to catch as much as she could of the cold stream of air that flowed beneath them. Higher and higher she flew, high enough to see for miles along the wide expanse of the ocean—a darker blue than the sky and choppy today, with surging white-capped waves. She flapped her wings, enjoying the exhilaration of her speed through the air, the strength of the wind whistling beneath her feathers. Soon she spotted her destination: a ship bobbing on the waves far below, presenting almost the appearance a child’s bath toy from her lofty altitude. The bird tucked her wings close to her body and flowed into a dive, feeling a different sort of exhilaration in the descent, shooting downwards at breathtaking speed until with a swoop and a graceful flourish she extended her wings to catch the rising currents of the ocean breeze. Fluttering them through the warmer sea air she landed lightly on the_ Jolly Roger’s_ wheel and chirped merrily at the man who stood behind it. 

“Hello, lass,” Killian greeted her, holding out his arm for her to perch upon it. “What news?” 

The bird lifted up her leg, where a small piece of rolled-up parchment was tied. Gently, Killian removed it from its binding and unrolled it to read the message. A slow smile curved his lips and then he nodded. 

“We’ll be there within the week,” he informed the bird. “Tell her to be ready.” 

The bird chirped and hopped up his arm and Killian’s smile widened to a grin. “Aye, love, I haven’t forgotten. There’s seeds and water waiting for you in the galley.” He stroked the bird’s delicate head with his forefinger. “Be sure to have a good rest before you head back, and mind the trade winds over the southern seas, they’re blowing strong today,” he said. The bird chirped again and fluttered affectionately around Killian’s head before taking off into the air, swooping over the ship’s rail and through the open window of the galley.

The fond expression slid from Killian’s face, replaced by a look of stern command. “SMEE!” he bellowed. Almost immediately the little man appeared. Smee had a sixth sense about when his captain might need him, which was often annoying but just as frequently invaluable. 

“Sir?” he replied. 

“We’re heading back to Misthaven,” said Killian. “Tell the crew.” 

“Misthaven?” Smee’s face crumpled with worry. “Again?” 

“Aye,” Killian snarled, allowing his own face to glower menacingly in the way he knew set Smee quaking in his boots. “_Again. _And if anyone has a problem with that they can take it up with me. Is that understood?” 

“Aye, sir.” 

“Excellent.” Killian clapped Smee on the shoulder as a wicked grin curled his lips. “Now look sharp, Mr Smee. We have a princess to abduct.” 

~

Princess Emma was walking in her garden when the pirates snatched her. 

They were impressively silent for men who didn’t ordinarily walk on land; the first indication she had of their presence was the rough hand that covered her mouth, stifling her startled shriek. An arm came around her waist and another pair of hands quickly bound her wrists together. She felt the cool edge of a knife against her throat and a gravelly voice whispered in her ear. 

“I’m takin’ my ‘and away, now lassie. But if ye make a single sound I’ll slit yer throat, and the cap’n be damned. Savvy?” 

Emma nodded her understanding and the hand disappeared. She barely had time to draw breath, though, when it was replaced by a gag, a raggedy scarf forced into her mouth and tied tightly at the back of her head. 

At least it was clean, she thought. 

The pirates —there appeared to be three of them— hauled her along at a rapid pace, though the familiar gap in the garden wall and along the darkened streets of the town to the docks. Many ships were moored there but one stood out, tall and proud and painted with stripes of yellow. This the pirates hustled her towards, up the gangplank and onto the quarterdeck where the leather-clad man who was obviously their captain stood waiting. 

“This the one ye wanted?” asked the man who’d spoken earlier, thrusting Emma forward. “Found ‘er where ye said t’ look.” 

The captain’s handsome face was expressionless, his blue eyes cold as they raked down Emma’s body. “She’ll do,” he said. “Take her to my quarters and lock her in.” 

“Aye, Cap’n!” 

The three pirates dragged Emma away. The last thing she saw before she was hauled below decks was the captain shouting at his men to prepare to set sail. 

~

They’d been sailing for a good three hours before he came for her. Emma had managed to free herself from both the gag and the ropes around her wrists—the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming could not be kept bound for long—but the door of the cabin was strong and sturdy and the lock was one she couldn’t pick. She was pacing up and down the small room when that door opened and the captain appeared. He stepped through and shut it firmly behind him, and she heard the lock being turned from the outside. 

He regarded her with those blue, blue eyes. “Well, Princess,” he said.

“Well, Captain,” she replied. 

She had no idea who moved first—both of them at once perhaps, together in this as in all things—but she flew across the room and he strode forward to meet her and then she was in his strong arms, held tight and close against his body, and his lips were warm on hers and his hair soft between her fingers and _gods_, how she’d missed him. Four months was far too long. 

He clearly felt the same, kissing her like a man starving, one hand buried in her hair and the other gripping her hip as he held her tightly against him. 

Long moments later they broke for air, gasping and still entwined, foreheads pressed together. The blue of his eyes was hot now, a thin ring around black as he gazed at her with a hunger that made her thighs clench. “Apologies for the abduction,” he murmured. “It had to look convincing.” 

She curled her fingers into the hair at his nape. “It was. I believed it myself until I saw Smee. If you hadn’t sent him along I wouldn’t have let them take me.” 

“My fierce lass,” he said fondly, kissing her again. “I thought as much, which is why he was chosen for the mission.” 

“Does the rest of the crew know?” she asked. “About me, or our plans?”

“No. There are a few I’m not certain we can trust. We’ll have to transfer them to another ship, or off the crew completely, before I’ll feel comfortable with you roaming free on the _Jolly._”

“_Another_ ship? You’ve started taking them already?” 

“Aye, love. Five of them.” He grinned at her. “One currently moored on an island not far from here. We’re heading in her direction now, so you shouldn’t have to pretend to be my captive for more than two or three days.” 

“Hmmm. Whatever shall I do for three _whole_ days, held captive here in this cabin with its very narrow bed?” she teased him, rolling her hips against his until he groaned and pulled her in for another frantic kiss.

Scooping her into his arms he carried her to the bed and laid her down, his mouth barely leaving hers as they rid themselves of their clothes. With gentle lips and insistent hands he plundered her body, seeking out every spot that he knew would make her sigh and gasp with pleasure. They came together slowly, reverently, words of love carried on soft moans and the waves crashing against the hull of the ship drowning their cries. 

After, she curled against his chest as he slept, stroking absent patterns through the hair on it, thinking about the task that lay before them. About the months, perhaps even years of preparation, the careful plotting and intricate strategy, and the ultimate monumental task. The monumental and terribly dangerous task. 

She cuddled closer to Killian, smiling faintly as his arms tightened around her. If that danger were to touch him, to harm him, to take him from her, how could she possibly bear the pain of it? Emma had known warm and generous love all her life; from her parents and the palace staff, from her people. But she had never felt anything like the consuming, overwhelming ferocity of her love for Killian. He was part of her, vital to her, and she couldn’t—_couldn’t_— lose him. 

“I can practically hear you thinking,” he said, his voice rumbling through his chest beneath her ear, thick and heavy with sleep. “Stop worrying.” 

“How do you know I’m worrying?” 

“I know _you_, my love. I know that you’re lying there wide awake with nothing but the worst possible scenarios running through your head and I know that you need to stop.” He brushed her hair back from her cheek, pressed a soft kiss on her forehead. “We can do this, you and I. We _will_ do it. Together. Have a little faith.” 

“I do, Killian, honestly. But it’s such a huge thing, and there’s so much that could go wrong—” 

“Could, not will.” 

“—and so much danger—if I lost you—” 

Quicker than she could blink he twisted his body until she was beneath him, letting his fingers sink into her hair as his mouth quirked into the wicked grin she loved so much. “Ah, you don’t have to worry about me, darling,” he said. “I’m a pirate. Danger is what I do.” 

She burst into laughter, worry momentarily dissolving into helpless, choking mirth. “What a line!” she gasped, when she had enough breath back to speak. “Do you say that to all the wenches?” 

He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Only the ones I wish to ravish.” 

“Oh? And are you going to ravish _me_, pirate?” she asked in a breathy voice, batting her eyelashes coyly. 

“Well, now I think I must. My reputation is at stake.” 

“Mmmm. You’d better put some effort into it, then.” 

He let his hand stroke down her body, tracing gently over her breast and across her belly to the tops of her thighs. She bit her lip as it slipped between them, as his breath whispered hot across her ear. “As her highness commands,” he purred. 

~

When she awoke she was alone in the narrow bed, the sheets twisted around her. A flash of fear gripped her heart before she remembered where she was. On Killian’s ship, safe in his cabin. He may not be there beside her but he couldn’t have gone far. 

“Ah, you’re finally awake,” said his voice from the vicinity of the desk, as if in confirmation. 

She rolled over to find him seated in his chair, dressed in his leather trousers but no shirt. “What do you mean, finally?” she demanded. 

“This is a working ship, Your Royal Highness, here we can’t while away the day in bed.” 

“I’ll have you know I’m normally—” she began indignantly, sitting sharply upright before she caught the teasing expression on his face and relaxed back against the pillows. “Hmph,” she said. “I don’t suppose there’s any such thing as breakfast here on this _working ship_.” 

Killian rose from his desk and went to the door. She heard him tap on it, heard the lock turn and caught a glimpse of Smee’s red knit cap as he and Killian exchanged a few whispered words. The door shut and the lock turned again. 

“Smee will bring some bread and coffee,” he informed her. “I’m afraid it’s all we have until we get to the island and can restock.” 

“That’ll be fine.” 

He smiled at her, warm but tinged with apprehension as his hand came up to scratch behind his ear. “Um,” he said. “While we wait, I wonder if you’d like to have a look at what I’ve been working on. My plans.” 

“Plans?” 

“Aye. For extracting your parents from the Queen’s castle.” 

“You’ve already made plans?” 

He nodded. “I know that’s what was worrying you last night. The assault on the castle, I mean. I thought perhaps if we discussed it, looked at what we can do, that maybe you might feel less anxious.”

She stared at him, emotions surging through her. Slowly she rose from the bed and went to him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his neck. “You always know exactly what I need,” she whispered. “How do you _always_ know?” 

“You’re an open book to me, my Emma,” he replied, stroking her hair as it tumbled down her bare back. “One that I read with great care and attention.” Gently he wove his fingers though her curls and tugged on them until she looked up and met his eyes. “I love you,” he said softly. “Nothing matters more to me than you.”

She nodded, smiling even as she blinked away tears. “I love you too. Thank you for doing this for me. All of this.” 

“My love, you know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” 

“I know.” She cupped his cheek in her palm and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Will you show me what you’ve planned?” 

“Of course.”

~

One year, one hundred and thirty-seven days later Lieutenant William Jones stood at the helm of the _Jolly Roger_ with his hands clasped firmly on her wheel and surveyed the ships arrayed strategically around the harbour in front of him. It was a smaller harbour than Misthaven’s, with a smaller village behind it and a smaller castle atop a hill in the distance, but the similarities in landscape and architecture loudly proclaimed its historic kinship to that neighbouring kingdom. The design of the ships that stood in its defence was painfully familiar to him, as was the purple standard each one bore, fluttering atop their mainmasts in the early morning breeze. 

A small brown bird fluttered down, coasting along that same breeze to alight on his shoulder and chirp a bright song in his ear. 

Lieutenant Jones nodded, and the bird fluttered away. The lieutenant squared his shoulders. “SMEE!” he bellowed, and almost immediately the little man appeared. He really had a remarkable proclivity for anticipating his commander’s needs, thought Lieutenant Jones. 

“Sir?” Smee replied. 

“Is everything ready?” asked the lieutenant.

“Aye, sir. The crew is prepared.” 

“Excellent.” 

“And—are we certain she’s there, sir?” 

“We are indeed. The birds have confirmed that the Queen is aboard her flagship. Just there.” He inclined his head towards the largest of the ships, the one floating directly in front of the _Jolly_. “Everything is in place. Prepare the signal.” 

“Aye, sir.” Smee scurried away.

“All right, then,” muttered Lieutenant Jones, tightening his grip on the wheel. “Let’s do this.”


End file.
